Tom Cutter, accustomed to acting swiftly upon his superior's
suggestions, listened wordlessly to the few whispered instructions,
nodded, and did as he was told, effacing himself in the shadows at the
corner of the building, prepared when the time came to spring out into
the street whence he could command the front and one side of the Casa
Blanca. Norton, before leaving Cutter, had drawn the heavy gun from
the holster swinging at his belt.
"It's some time since we've had any two-handed shooting to do, Tommy,"
he said as his lean fingers curved to the familiar grip of the Colt 45.
"But I guess we haven't forgotten how. Now, stick tight until you hear
things wake up."
He was gone, turning back to the rear of the house, passing close to
Struve, going on to the northeast corner, slipping quietly about it,
moving like a shadow along the eastern wall. Here were two windows,
both looking into the long barroom, both with their shades drawn down
tight.
At the first window Norton paused, listening. From within came a man's
voice, the Kid's, in his ugly snarl of a laugh, evil and reckless and
defiant, that and the clink of a bottle-neck against a glass. Norton,
his body pressed against the wall, stood still, waiting for other
voices, for Galloway's, for Vidal Nunez's.
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